


But The Room Is Too Quiet

by buhnebeest



Series: Myrthe Lavellan [3]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Amputation, Angst, Coma, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Post-Tresspasser
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-11
Updated: 2016-09-11
Packaged: 2018-08-14 13:21:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8015584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buhnebeest/pseuds/buhnebeest
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He did not think. He just sat by Myrthe’s bedside and watched her sleep, and he did not think.</p>
            </blockquote>





	But The Room Is Too Quiet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sumi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sumi/gifts).



Seven hours, forty-one minutes, eighteen seconds.

The clock in his head was relentless, a countdown with no end in sight. He ground away the endless seconds with not thinking, put all his effort in not thinking.

Josephine and Leliana had wisely decided to leave him to his devices; only Mopsie braved his company now, curled up by his feet with a couple of the fancy dog treats Myrthe had painstakingly procured for her, watching over him with the loyal patience of her breed.

Myrthe was an animated sleeper, usually; Cullen liked to watch her sometimes, when his dreams started him awake, and take comfort in her sweet little snores and unintelligible elvhen mumbles.

There was nothing of that now. Myrthe was deep in the throes of the prophet’s laurel, dosed into a deep, dreamless sleep. Her stillness was disquieting.

It was hard to look at her.

Cullen preferred to look at her in parts, the dear parts of her he knew like a prayer. There was her pale fine hair, soft to the touch – stained with blood still, no matter how he washed it; there was her sweet face, calm and serene in sleep – ghostly pale, almost gray, her lips cracked as though she hadn’t drunk in days. There was her hand, her fingers twined with his, however inanimately, just like they were meant to.

He would have to find her a new wedding ring. She could wear it on her right hand, if she wanted. Maybe on a chain around her neck, if she preferred that.

Culllen swallowed and reached for the bowl of blood-pink water by her bedside. He wrung the excess water from the cloth there one-handed and brought it to her face, gently wiping at the stubborn rusty-red smear of blood by her temple.

Seven hours, fifty-one minutes, twenty-three seconds.

He did not think. He just sat by Myrthe’s bedside and watched her sleep, and he did not think of pacing by the eluvian for hours, worry coursing like sludge through his veins; the mirror finally shimmering, glowing, and Blackwall and Cole stumbling out, the both of them covered in blood; then finally the Iron Bull, carrying the limp body of Cullen’s wife.

Next to him, Mopsie whined softly. Cullen blew out a breath, forcing himself to relax. Not thinking, that was the plan.

Eight hours.

*******

Night fell, and Myrthe’s breath caught.

Cullen jerked in his chair, heart leaping, just as Mopsie jumped to her feet, huffing a quiet bark.

Myrthe’s face twisted with a frown that broke the branching lines of her vallaslin; a moment later she moaned softly, rattling and dry in her throat, writhing in place as much as her exhausted body would let her.

She moaned again, words this time, gibberish and elvhen woven together under her breath. Cullen spoke elvhen a little by now – Myrthe had taught him some of it over the years, giggling delightedly over his apparently hilarious pronunciation; grinning when he showed he had been practicing while she was away; flushing with pleasure when he told her he loved her in her mother tongue – but all he really understood from her terrified whimpers were curses: the Dread Wolf this and the Dread Wolf that.

Curses and prayers; pleas. He had to end her nightmares.

“Myrthe, wake up,” he said, swallowing past the lump in his throat. “It’s safe. You’re all right, my love, I promise. You’re at the Palace. You’re safe.”

Myrthe stopped thrashing at the sound of his voice, laurel-dulled eyes opening wide all at once, terrified and desperate; like he was the last thing she’d ever see. Cullen held her hand helplessly, wishing he could grab her, embrace her – comfort her – but Vivienne’s words kept rolling around in his head: _severe trauma and blood loss; don’t jostle her until the prophet’s laurel has taken effect._

“C-Cullen,” Myrthe croaked, and Maker damn him she was trying to smile, her frail little hand gripping weakly at his fingers. “M-Ma’arlath.”

Cullen shook his head, heart hurting, and cupped her cheek, gently resting his thumb over her bloodless lips. “Hush, my love, don’t try to talk. Blink once for ‘yes’ and twice for ‘no’, all right?”

Myrthe stared at him for a moment, then slowly blinked.

“Vivienne says you’ll be all right. You’re going to be all right,” he said again, trying to make himself believe it as much as her. “You just have to be brave for a little longer, my love. Can you do that for me?”

Blink.

“Good, sweetling.” Cullen leant low to press his forehead to hers. “I love you. You know that, don’t you?”

Myrthe blinked, more confidently now; she was smiled for him again, a little lopsided from the prophet’s laurel, but so so beautiful. Cullen smiled back helplessly. Maker, his eyes felt like they must be _leaking_ tears.

“Do you… do you remember what happened?”

For a long moment, she just stared at him, face blank; he could see the exact moment the penny dropped. Her already-pale cheeks turned ashen, and her eyes went wide with urgent dread, the same panic that struck when she woke hitting her now twice over.

Cullen’s heart throbbed painfully, but he managed to catch her before she surged up to look at her arm. It was painfully easy to hold her down; she was kitten-weak and limp, the lithe strength of her boiled down to a rattling, terrified moan.

“No, sweetling, don’t look. Just look at me, Myrthe: right here, my love, look at me.” Cullen curled over her, pressed his forehead to hers, cradling her cheeks. “Listen to me first, all right?”

She blinked hard, eyes glittering as she stared up at him.

“There was a lot of damaged tissue,” Cullen said, as gently as he could. Every time he closed his eyes he still saw the ruined pulp of her ripped-off hand, the ragged flesh and naked, splintering bone; the sheer brutality of it was going to be burned on the back of his eyelids forever. “Vivienne had to amputate from the elbow joint down. It’s a clean cut now, wrapped up in bandages: we’re going to look together, all right?”

Myrthe made a scared little noise, but she blinked her assent. Cullen slowly pulled back, gripping tight to her hand to make up for how her own grip lacked the necessary strength. He felt her brace herself, and then breathe out slowly as they looked down together.

It was exactly as he’d said; a clean cut, wrapped up in bandages, neat and perfect like only Vivienne could manage. There would be minimal scarring, minimal lingering pain. Cullen waited patiently as Myrthe stared, her pulse racing under his fingertips.

“My r-ring,” she rasped finally, barely more than a breath. A tear was rolling down her cheek.

Cullen swallowed the lump in his throat and brought her hand to his mouth, pressing a kiss to her bare knuckles. It would be all right.

“I will get you a new one, my love.”


End file.
